THE 'EMERALD ISLE' (POULTRY STYLE)

Montserrat is perhaps one of the most beautiful places I have had the pleasure of visiting. The ‘Emerald Isle’, nestled into the Leeward Islands, deep in the heart of the West Indies, was discovered by Columbus in 1493. It was late 1988 and from Antigua we took a perilously small twin prop plane that would land us virtually on the beach at W.H Bramble Airport, a glorified rough track that has now, along with most of the south of the Island, been destroyed by the previously dormant volcano in 1995 (to add to that tragedy, in 1989, just months after we left, Hurricane Hugo also made a visit and destroyed 90% of the Islands infrastructure) Clearing customs was a ramshackle affair, much like a car boot sale, all carried out in the open with fragile looking trestle tables, our luggage and passports were given a cursory glance and we were soon set free to roam the island. Pre the afore mentioned natural disasters, this small nugget of paradise was home to ‘Air Montserrat’ a purpose built ‘state of the art’ studio, who’s proud owner was Sir George Martin. We were to stay in his ‘plantation’ house, a wooden, single story structure surrounded by a classic picket fenced veranda. As a child I was always encouraged to notice and appreciate nature. This is something that has never left me and so, typically I suppose, while the rest of the band settled in, I chose to wander round the extensive gardens. In front of the house was a large expanse of grass that had an unusually large number of golf ball sized holes in it. If this was somewhere to practice ‘putting’ then whoever had made the holes had got carried away, as they were dotted around everywhere. Instinctively reaching for one of the long blades of strong grass that grew at the perimeter of the garden, I inserted it deep into the hole to see what might live there. As soon as the grass reached the bottom, something latched on violently, attaching itself and making the blade heavy. Carefully I slowly retracted the grass wondering what might be holding on, a mouse perhaps or large native beetle? The legs came first, followed by a huge fury body. I am no arachnophobe, but I wasn’t prepared to be up close and personal with a real live tarantula. As I fled to the house it struck me that we would be living amongst these creatures for some time. To their credit though, they kept themselves, to themselves.
Morning came and with it a sumptuous breakfast, prepared by two ‘Tom and Jerry’ style apron-wearing ‘mamas’, both showing evidence of a committed eating programme. Freshly made pancakes were lovingly laid out before us and it was here that I would learn to ‘hedgehog’ a mango; each half, cubed with a knife and then turned inside out, still a delight to this day. Fruit of all kinds, grew in all places, begging to be picked.
The studio itself was beautifully positioned, set high up with far reaching views of the Island. Outside, was a large swimming pool, warm and inviting, and for refreshment, cold fresh coconuts (with straws inserted), were offered with a smile by the aptly named studio assistant, Sugar Daddy. All this and more lay on hand to cool and sooth away the stresses of recording. Food, and my hunger for it, has seemed to define and punctuate most of my life. This trip and the gastronomic delights it offered would provide no exception. Our chef, born and bred on the Island, and economically named X, was a giant of a man, who would prepare for us some of the best food I have eaten. Locally caught fresh Lobster (with curry sauce!) and fish of all shapes and sizes and of course chicken, lip tingling with hot sauce were all standards in his repertoire. We discovered in time that only chicken legs made it onto the island, perhaps breasts and thighs were deemed too expensive, so, when we saw ‘Mountain Chicken’ on the menu we fully expected to encounter other parts of, a perhaps, more local bird. But again, only legs arrived. This time though they looked slightly strange, bigger and darker in colour. They tasted great and it was only when X appeared for his after dinner applause that we noticed a suspicious smirk on his face. ‘Mountain Chicken’ was in fact, a frog, a huge local variety of the species, and the size of a melon. On occasion they would hop up to the pool and sit silently in the sun.
Meal times were the high point for me. The time spent in the studio could be exhilarating alright, but with a ‘deliver or you won’t feature’ policy in place, stress levels would rise (for me at least) At dinner though, the work was over for the day, and now there was eating to be done and some interesting banter with it. One evening when we had finished our food and the chef had made his customary appearance (to be told how talented he was) the conversation turned to the local female ‘talent’ and what bar or night club might be worth visiting, understandable given we were all male and with healthy levels of testosterone between us. Suggestions were made and long tales of fine Montserratian ‘babes’ already conquested were banded around, when suddenly, out of the blue, X hung a dubious left in the conversation. In a strong local patois, he uttered these unforgettable words.
‘Yeah but, ya aft ta *uck a duck’
 As silence enveloped our table, someone plucked up the courage to press for further detail, which resulted in the realisation that it was indeed true, our man in the kitchen, had stayed from the beaten path and had a weakness for a duck. Later that evening, prompted by this earlier revelation, our producer divulged to us that, a now famous blues legend (who’s name I will keep to myself to ensure my future health and happiness) had grown up on a farmyard and also took ‘pleasure from the feather’, in his case it was chickens. There must be an easier way, I mused, even though poultry may well provide for an uncomplicated mistress, but could this be a clue as to why only chicken legs made it onto the island, and why our chef had turned his eye to the larger ‘billed’ ladies?
Moving swiftly on and to more savoury recreational matters. At the weekends we were invited by an English expat to spend the day on his catamaran, something we ended up doing on a regular basis. The beaches on the island had a rather dark brownish sand due to the volcanic rock, but he knew a beach that was pristine with untouched white sand that could only be reached via the sea. After an exhilarating sail round the island with sightings of flying fish and dolphins we would dock up and enjoy the snorkelling (As a near none swimmer I found that with a mask on, I could submerge my face in the water, and miraculously, my body would float, although sadly I also discovered that if I laughed, I would sink) Before leaving the studio for the catamaran, our singer had commissioned X to make a cake, the kind of cake that would leave a long lasting impression on everyone who sampled it. As the snorkelling came to an end and the skipper prepared to sail us home, we noticed that our technician was nowhere to be seen. It turned out that fully stocked up on cake he had headed off into the sunset. Delirious and happily hallucinating, we would have to wait two hours for his return, by this time sobered somewhat by the third degree burns to his back. By way of compensation though, the mermaids and sea monsters he had witnessed would provide endless stories for his grand children. Tired out by the fresh sea air we would very often sit and watch a DVD from the studios varied collection. This particular evening we had chosen ‘Spinal Tap’. As we sat down (not for the first time) to enjoy this very funny film, the studio manager, an English lady who had worked at ‘Air Montserrat’ since it opened in 1979 remarked on how popular this ‘rockumentary’ was with the very type of band it mocked. Under her watch at the studio she must have witnessed some of the biggest names in the business, from Stevie Wonder to Michael Jackson, Lou Reed to the Rolling Stones, they had all been here, but it was Black Sabbath that sprung from her memory, as Rob Reiner began his introduction to this spoof.
The boys from Sabbath, she recalled, had sat in silence for the duration of the film and as the credits rolled, with misty eyes, they began to discuss what they had seen.
“that was sad”

(long silence)

“yeah” (long silence)

“yeah, that was sad ... but they had some great songs”

Having been to the top of the Soufriere Hills volcano and peered down into its molten yolk, I couldn’t have been more unaware of what would soon happen. Shocking were the images of the islands capitol, Plymouth, reduced to an oversized ashtray, this small slice of paradise is now forever tainted. I often think of the homegrown (now late) Montserratian ‘soca’ star, ‘Arrow’, who was responsible for the worldwide hit ‘Hot Hot Hot’. He was reputed to have an arrow shaped swimming pool and known for his no nonsense, direct approach to life. On one night out we would meet him and indulge in some mutual backslapping. The conversation, however, ended with his trademark honesty as he uttered the words,
“yeah I like ya music”

 (long pause and whilst walking away)

 “to a point”

THE CATHEDRAL

As a performer, it is in my opinion, much easier to play to a large crowd than a small one. Being of a nervous disposition, I much preferred a sea of anonymity as apposed to being able to pick out the members on my guest list. With the big gig I could forget there was anybody there and just get on with the job, more intimate performances would lay bare my every imperfection. On an 80’s American tour I remember a hideous scenario where the audience were essentially, dining three feet away while we played. Burger and chips, chicken in a basket and pizza would pass under our noses as we tried to entertain, the music reduced to an irrelevant backdrop, in front of which, punters could top up their cholesterol levels. Being close up to the band is, I’m sure, great for the audience, but for me, ideally, they could listen via a ‘tannoy’ in the car park (where they could also indulge in food and beverage) I have never been in the slightest bit interested in football but when I heard we were to play Wembley Stadium, two nights on the trot, even my heart skipped a beat. This of course was the Wembley ‘of old’, known as the ‘Empire Stadium’, built in 1923 and famously dubbed ‘The Cathedral of Football’ by the great Pele. To me, and I am a football ignoramus, this fine building had infinitely more stature and atmosphere than it’s bigger, brasher replacement in 2007, but I am most definitely not qualified to judge. We were to be supported by the band, ‘Danny Wilson’. They had opened for us on an earlier American tour and who can forget, even today, their standout anthem, ‘Mary’s Prayer’. As we entered the stadium I remember being struck by how immaculate the turf was, albeit mostly covered by a layer of thick plastic in readiness for the seventy thousand strong crowd, a moment perhaps wasted on me, as I focused on the groundsman’s challenge, as opposed to the heady football scent of years gone by. (I’m afraid that lawns, along with fish and chips are areas of my life that have fallen foul of an inexplicable obsessiveness that, when indulged, can bore the pants off even the most earnest of listeners) During sound check, I looked out from behind my keyboard at a vast landscape of empty seats, in front of which, in only a few hours, would stand many more thousands of people. The stage was the largest I have encountered, larger than many gigs I have subsequently performed at and at each end was an ‘ego’ platform, somewhere to run to and deliver your solo. With video screens in place, this was big.
We had been opening our shows with a tune that started with an unaccompanied riff from a trumpet (being the bands trumpet player there was no avoiding this) In theatres I would be expected to stand in front of the curtain and blast out the said intro, and as it rose with stage illuminated, I would then be joined by the rest of the band as the tune began in earnest. To say the least this was stressful and sadly came at a time before my discovery of the trumpet players savour, the ‘beta blocker’. Tonight at Wembley stadium, as the lights went down and the vast crowd roared its appreciation, I would once again have to perform this task. It’s fair to say that in the past, my track record for acquitting myself without blemish, had not always gone to plan and certainly not unnoticed. If the man up front had been James Brown I would have been long gone and not before being heavily fined. Surely tonight, the Gods would be with me.

It’s 1996, and I am making some headway in a new band. This time it’s a three piece with a ‘Drum and Bass’ direction. After two or three releases, all bizarrely reaching the frustratingly inadequate heights of number 41 in the single charts, we would soon land a whopper, that for a brief moment in time would herald us as the new kids on the ‘Trip Hop’ block.
From time to time, as with every up and coming band, we would be expected to take part in promotional activity, that despite often being far removed from our chosen subject would somehow cross pollinate and haul in new audience members. There was to be a charity football match, held at, none other than the afore mentioned, Wembley Stadium, , where bands such as Blur, Massive Attack, and Supergrass, to name but a few would join forces to create two teams (England and Scotland) and fight it out on the ‘Hallowed’ ground. Overcome by the galling feeling that although this was one of the most inappropriate things I should consider doing (but how could I miss out on such an adventure) my ego swung into action and soon enough I could be overheard agreeing to be a team member, along with my band mate and co-producer who was, needless to say, in a different class to me at kicking a ball around a pitch. I was to play for England and my band mate Scotland, and were each issued a pair of boots and a strip with our names emblazoned on the back, however, there had been a mix up and my colleagues shirt had the, absent, Nicky Campbell's name on it. On his radio show the next day, he remarked on how he'd been able to play at Wembley without even being there. I have never much cared for Mr Campbell, but for the time it took to play out this charade, I would have happily swapped identities. As we lined up on the pitch for a pep talk with the ref, I have never felt more out of place, a fraudulent pretender with a very poor foot to ball coordination into the bargain.
As the match got underway, we didn’t have to wait too long for a goal. Daddy G of Massive Attack fame, a six foot five statue of sinew and muscle, planted a peach of a goal in the back of the net and celebrated with a mid air somersault. Shortly afterwards Damon Albarn repeated the process. In the second half my band mate broke away and beat everyone including the English keeper to score for Scotland, but there was no equalizer and the final score was 2-1. All very impressive.
For me however, this was to be a game of two halves. I was on the pitch for the first half, but off for the second, and difficult to determine which half showed the greater contribution. I do recall nearly coming into contact with the ball though. It was just before half time and I can remember willing the referee to blow his whistle and put me out of my misery (the football scene in the film ‘Kes’ will do as a good illustration) Shocked by the vast distances you are required to run and completely out of shape, I noticed a large youth approaching me with the ball. As a defender, I knew that my role was to keep the ball from going in the net and therefore I must, in theory, tackle this chap and dispossess him. Instead, as he got nearer to me, my survival instinct kicked in and I quite literally ran away. Luckily, another defender stepped in and mopped up my mess, temporarily
reducing the shame, or so I thought. To my horror, the whole match was filmed and we were each presented with a keepsake copy. I have lost mine, but Mr G (who, incidentally, has subsequently become my brother-in-law) takes pleasure in reminding me that his is safely tucked away in his DVD collection.

Back at the show and safely out onto the ‘ego’ platform without tripping myself up, deafened by the roar of the crowd I began to blow my own trumpet. I remember how it ricocheted around the stadium and from memory most of the notes were, this time, in the right place. Mid riff, I looked up to take in the crowd and noticed opposite me at the back of the venue, lost in a sea of people, my Methodist preaching and beret wearing Father with cine camera at the ready, sitting with my Mum in the Royal box. He would, throughout my childhood, refer to all pop music as ‘monkey music’ (I will leave you to evaluate alone the dubious undertones of this statement) To him, only classical music and ‘trad’ jazz were deemed acceptable exponents of the art. But here was his son, performing at Wembley stadium; surely there was something there to be proud of? (he once declared that he was genuinely disappointed that none of his children had become Doctors!) In time however, he would soften, and sometimes when off guard, could even be caught bragging to the neighbours. Music is a great communicator, and I’ve always been genuinely amazed at what monkeys can do.

FUOCO CON GHANJA E FINLANDIA

Today, every song released into the ether is accompanied by the obligatory ‘remix package’. The engineer (or today, the shmuck sitting behind the computer, who is carrying out the roles of writer, producer, mixer, tea maker, psychoanalyst etc) will be required to commit the vocal to the nearest hard drive. This will then be sent to several of the hottest re-mixers, and in time, regurgitated gracelessly onto the dance floor, in an attempt to extend the songs demographic reach.
In 1987 this phenomenon was yet to be encountered, except perhaps in the world of ‘Dub’, where reggae originals would be mashed up by the likes of Osbourne ‘King Tubby’ Ruddock and Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry, ambient and vocally economical re-workings of the classics, laced with reverbs, delays and extra special effects. Our singer, who had perhaps one of ‘the’ definitive collections of ‘Dub’ records, would, with a bespoke ‘Bose’ system fitted to our tour bus, treat us to his own ‘ganjah’ fuelled ‘remix package’ as we drove through the night. Albeit enjoyable, to me the volume was blistering, harsh on the ear and the possible reason why my ‘top end’ hearing today, has had its edge smoothed away. As a captive audience member, only my ‘onboard’ bunk could provide me with a means of escape. We were told to always sleep with our heads towards the back of the bus, as a sudden stop could be a potential neck breaker. Our drummer however confided in me that on occasion he chose to lie ‘head facing the front’ so he could imagine he was ‘Superman’ as he fell asleep. There’s an irony in there somewhere, as time would attest to.
We had recorded a version of Bunny Wailer’s ‘Love Fire’ for our second album, produced by the late Alex Sadkin, who was responsible, amongst many other things, for the sublime ‘Nightclubbing’ album by Grace Jones. Despite the fact that remixes were rare in these days, it was decided that Lee Perry would be invited to put his spin on the track. A couple of the band had connections with Adrian Sherwood, a producer/engineer Perry was working with at the time, and to everybody’s excitement he had agreed to come along with Adrian to work his magic, and even more surprisingly, there was an invite to come to the studio and watch.
We were told to meet at a small underground London studio, sometime after 9pm. The studio door, once opened, led straight from the street down a long narrow corridor, thick with the inviting odour of the finest Jamaican weed. The first thing I noticed was a microphone lead that seemed to come from the main control room, but disappeared into a door way to the right of the corridor. This room turned out to be the toilet. In it, with door open, was Mr. Perry, standing with microphone in hand, capturing the sonic charms of the contents of his bladder. It might be fair to point out, that Lee Perry, was by some, and putting it mildly, regarded as eccentric (‘clinically insane’ might be more accurate) In 1980, he had burned his Jamaican ‘Black Ark’ studio to the ground. When asked why he might do such a thing his response was immediate, “I’m a toaster”. Silly question, I suppose.

Publishers live for one thing only, a ‘smash hit’ single. Album tracks are now of course redundant, as they will be left in cyber space to fester, with only the radio friendly singles being deemed worthy of a download. In the last fifteen years or so it has become increasingly common to send writers away to various parts of Europe to take part in ‘Song Camps’. Here, small numbers of young (and some not so young) hopefuls, will gather to chase that illusive ‘smash hit’. These trips are expensive, but in recent years publishers have been all too keen to stump up the cost, knowing that if their investment pays off, they can recoup it all from the writers share of the spoils. More recently, however, the ‘credit crunch’ has tempered this uncharacteristic seam of ‘temporary’ generosity.
In 2008 I was invited to attend a Finnish ‘Song Camp’. Ordinarily I would have declined but a good friend, and fellow songwriter had also agreed to go, so I decided to join the crowd. I knew we would have fun, and who knows, we may also come home with a means of repaying our un-recouped balance. My partner-in-crime, was to say the least, a character. A master of the funniest anecdote, he divulged to me, on the way to the airport, that as a teenager, he dated a now very famous singer with a stage name that rhymed with the word ‘sink’. He added that, instead of enjoying sex in the way most of us hope to do, she had a penchant for climbing to the top of his wardrobe fully naked, and launching herself onto him, where below he would be laid out on the bed, also naked, with crown jewels suitably prepared. With eyes watering, and grateful for my own more mundane approach to such activities, I couldn’t help imagining the unthinkable scenario of a bad landing.
Once arrived and acclimatized, shocked by the minus ten Helsinki temperature and the foot of snow that lay outside, we were split up into two’s and three’s and led off into various temporary studios to start the hit making. It was what happened at the end of the day though, that will stay with me for some time.
Dinner was going to be served in the sauna.
I don’t mind telling you, I have a fair skin. So fair, that once on a cross country run at school, a revolting child, by the name of Lee,( no relation to the afore mentioned) decided to ‘nick name’ me ‘ghost’. Thankfully none of my better friends were present at the time and it didn’t stick (until now perhaps). At any rate, the prospect of de-robing in front of perfect strangers of both sexes (in Finland, swimwear is not expected to be worn in a sauna) was filling me with dread, let alone the technical challenge of then eating, and chatting, all in a stifling heat and with the knowledge that another English songwriter present at the camp had the reputation of being hung like a donkey. It was too much to bear. After a quick ‘heads up’ with my UK colleges it was decided that we would wear towels and with a stiff upper lip we entered the sauna and sat down to enjoy dinner. As the booze kicked in, naively thinking my troubles were over, I couldn’t help picking out the words ‘ice pool’ and ‘plunge’ in an otherwise bland conversation. The horror of sitting semi naked in a sauna full of strangers whilst eating dinner, had now just been dwarfed by the incomprehensible horror of having to jump into a hole, cut from ice that had formed on a nearby lake. Fully stocked up on vodka, I ventured out to at least give it try and despite the fact that I could hardly swim at all, I was determined to at least somehow submerge my ghost-like body, now fully camouflaged by the snow, into the water. What followed was not elegant and to add insult to injury I spotted my ‘well endowed’ and bronzed colleague, exiting the ice cold water (I stress exiting) yet still in clear danger of tripping himself up on his appendage. Some guys have all the luck. This was my first and last song camp.

Back in the land of Lee, sitting at the back of the studio, like students taking part in a master class, we eagerly watched the proceedings unfold. Bladder emptied and the intro to his remix, quite literally ‘in the can’, Perry entered the control room resplendently, with ‘dreads’ folded up into an impossibly tall hat. He then proceeded to add his own touches to our tune. Various bottles were used as percussion instruments and smatterings of his ‘Toasting’ were overdubbed into the mix. In those days, all the effects had to be hand administered, as the remix went down to tape, unlike today where everything can be rehearsed and ‘automated’. Sherwood and Perry would stand at the desk and perform ‘live’ all the necessary ‘knob twiddling’, while we looked on in ‘smoke fuelled’ awe.
If you listen to this mix (which is still available on ‘YouTube’) you will hear at the beginning, Lee Perry, AKA ‘The Upsetter’ imitating a baby, crying out “I want my mummy” with his very own watery accompaniment in the background. A moment in time, I will treasure forever. It was, and still is, indeed a privilege to be able to say, that Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry had ‘pissed’ all over our tune.

HACIENDA, RETURN TO SENDER

1983. With a year under my belt at the RNCM and now on a concerted mission to escape, no matter what it might take, I had joined forces with two similarly likeminded friends to form a ‘horn section’. Trumpet, trombone, and sax, we called ourselves ‘Rebop’, a nod to the retro and all things ‘Bebop’, a 1940’s jazz sub-genre that was making a comeback in pop music at this time. Local Manchester bands such as ‘The Jazz Defektors’ and ‘Carmel’ would look to include brassy ‘bebop inspired’ elements if they could, not to mention ‘Working Week’ with the great Harry Becket, and Sade, who we would later meet whilst supporting her at the Ritz with the aforementioned JD’s. So it was simple, with a horn section, we could bolt ourselves onto the ‘already successful’ and rise from our classical ashes like the proverbial phoenix, but with no further need to hang out with our throwback friends in the college refectory. Not that simple, as it turned out.

‘Rebop’ soon augmented itself into a full band and inexplicably changed it’s name to ‘Blast of Defiance’, a move which would inevitably cause embarrassment and shame, thrusting us in a trajectory that was going nowhere, fast.

And then a light bulb illuminated itself.

Why don’t we write to Tony Wilson? Surely he would be able to assist us in our quest for freedom, and ideally, stardom? In our eyes, this man was the definition of cool. Not for the fact that he was the ‘anchor man’ for ‘Granada Reports’ but more specifically because he co-owned the ‘Hacienda’, the coolest club in Manchester by far, and also ran ‘Factory Records’ which, a few years earlier, had signed ‘Joy Division’. (I say ‘signed’, but in actual fact nobody signed anything at Factory. Their 50/50 deals were all hung on a handshake, a two fingered gesture to the ‘established’ mainstream record industry that had tap-rooted itself to the smug of London, and where it remains to date)

Our sax player, who was studying at the University, and to be fair, had a better chance of writing anything legible, was enlisted to pen our request, which when loosely transcribed, read, ‘Giz a job’. We certainly didn’t expect a reply, but a couple of weeks later, when the three of us found ourselves in the same room (as of course this was before emailing, texting and tweeting) it became apparent that Mr Wilson would like to have us perform for him in a private audition at the Hacienda at 10.30 AM the following Saturday morning. Nothing like this had ever happened to any of us before, it felt like we had won the ‘pools’ and we hadn’t even met the man. After much deliberation and frantic rehearsal we chose the Charlie Parker classic, ‘Yardbird Suite’ as our test piece. When the day came, and with the music memorised, we would embark on an adrenalin-fuelled walk down Oxford Road and on to Whitworth Street West where the curves of the Hacienda waited patiently for us. As we turned the corner, the first thing I spotted was Tony’s ‘British Racing Green’ MK 2 Jaguar parked up outside. From memory it was a ‘Vicarage’ rebuild with classic exterior and ‘state of the art’ interior and like the Union Jack, raised high above Her Majesty’s palace, this was proof enough that he was actually in there and we weren’t taking part in some kind of cruel dream (I have, from this point in my life, had a deep and meaningful love affair with the Jaguar MK2, indeed I would, some years later, buy for myself an inferior ‘Old English White’ example which would massively back fire on me as the ‘classic’ market crashed in the early 90’s, but would at least compensate me on my wedding day)

We were to set up on the dance floor, which was strewn with plastic cups, cans, bottles and flattened cigarettes, evidence of a popular Friday night out. This giant ex-ship-building space seemed unusually quiet and empty and as we looked up to the balcony just to the right of the famous suspended DJ booth, like something out of Hollywood, three shadows could just be made out. I instinctively new this was going to be important.

The music industry today is, perhaps, one of the rudest and ill-mannered environments known to man. As a songwriter, I can tell you that communication, be it to deliver the good news or the bad, is an essential commodity if the creative juices are to be kept flowing. Ironic then, that the advancement of technology which has opened up creative opportunity for so many (that would have ordinarily fallen at the first expensive hurdle) has allowed people in power to treat their associates with such disrespect. I am of course talking about the ‘unanswered email’.

Thanks to the MP3, finished mixes these days are delivered in this way. Fast and convenient, seconds after the production is complete it can be sitting in the ‘A n R’s’ inbox.

If I turn in a piece of work that is deemed ‘great’, I am showered with a plethora of email goo.

“this is genius” “loving the vibe” “out and out smash”

It will just keep coming.

If I turn in a piece of work, that is deemed ‘not great’, I am, then hit, by a wall of deafening silence. Then, of course, comes the dilemma.

Are they being rude? Or perhaps the email has not reached them? Self doubt, paranoia and a sinking Sunday feeling (even though it might be Tuesday) sets in and you know it’s only wishful thinking to suspect the technology may have let you down. I am of course not advocating going back to the days of driving to the post office with a cassette tape (always special delivery, to avoid the fabricated ‘lost in the post’ old turkey) and waiting for the phone call months later to receive feedback. No. Email is much better. It is the people at the other end who are to blame. Email has spawned an unwelcome culture of laziness, an inability to engage and just be honest.

“your tune is shit” “your lyrics are weak” “no one will play this”, would be music to my ears.

Back at the Hacienda, we wait patiently for the signal.

“ok darlings” Wilson shouts out, “off you go”

And so we did, blasting out our ‘Yardbird’ with defiance.

And then there was silence. But, soon enough, out of the morning fug of this unlit industrial space, emerged a small and skinny man with ‘John Cooper Clark’ hair. We honestly thought he was one of the staff, helping to clear up the place from the previous night.

“Hi, I’m Vini, I’d like you to play on my next album”

None of us new much about ‘The Durutti Column’, a post punk guitar and drum combo, that showcased the genius of Vini Reilly. Indeed it wasn’t until we got home and offloaded the news to our ‘viola playing’ housemate that we could judge, by his vivid shade of green, how special the gig we had landed was.

With a date in the diary to record at ‘Strawberry Studios”, I had somehow, from somewhere, landed the beginnings of my great escape. Tony Wilson, may you rest in peace.

TRUMPET OR FLUNKET

At school I was a lazy daydreamer. Hunger and fatigue kicked in the moment my satchel crossed the threshold. Academically I would disappoint at every available opportunity, sporting an uncanny ability to retain absolutely nothing at all. I did however excel at music, something I can partially attribute to my Dad. He was a compulsive cine cameraman. Beret clad and permanently dressed in suit and tie, Channel 4 would not hesitate to document his behaviour, along with the hoarders and body-shockers, if they came across him today. Nothing went un-filmed and every second of my childhood became footage. As my siblings and I grew older though, the joy of this eccentricity would tarnish and wane. I’m sure he would have turned up at the hospital for the birth of our first child, if my wife hadn’t tricked us all into a last minute emergency home-birth.

In the summer of 1971, on a ‘compulsory’ holiday outing at the Scarborough Open Air Theatre, he spotted, somewhere in the corner of his viewfinder, a young seven year old boy copying the movements of a trombone player, armed with just a bucket and spade.

That Christmas there was a real life trumpet in my stocking (I don’t think my dad had planned for me to be a trombone player) and an obsession would begin (and be filmed).

My Mum had gone to my school and asked if there were any instruments available. Indeed there were; two trumpets, one at seven pounds and one at eleven. I was the lucky recipient of the seven-pounder, which being made of brass and un-lacquered, was dull and would after half an hour of playing, turn my hands green. This was of no consequence to me until I met the boy with the lacquered, eleven-pounder. I enquired naively as to why his trumpet was so shiny. “because I polish it .. stupid”. That year our local hardware store would discover that ‘Brasso’ was a very successful line. It never quite did the trick though.

My Dad, being a gifted academic, must have been disappointed and frustrated by my slow progress at school, but things would pick up after a successful audition at the Royal Northern College of Music. All I needed now was an O’level in Maths (which I had failed the previous year) and I was good to go. Thankfully in those days there was something called a CEE which somehow managed to scoop up the dullards, spoon feed them with the answers and force them into achieving an equivalent in something or other that amounted to an O’level. Shame all round.

Let nobody tell you “a music college is the same as a University, it’s just that everybody is studying music”. This is a lie.

Music College is a hot bed of young adults who have been spared a childhood, and with some coaxing from their parents, have willingly traded disco’s, youth clubs, record collections, pop music, fashion (and any knowledge of it), sex, alcohol, sport and of course drugs, for hour upon hour of practise on their chosen instrument. School then practise, sleep then school (after an hour of practise) and so it goes on. They think they have had a childhood but they haven’t. They have mutated into something else. They have become a ‘Walloon’.

And so in 1982 an unsuspecting Yorkshire boy, with trumpet in hand (by this time it’s a lacquered one) will arrive at such an establishment to discover the difference between a University and a Music College.

A ‘Hall of Residence’ is I think for most first year students a pretty good idea, an easy way to make new acquaintances even if they don’t manifest them selves in to life long friendships. This theory loses weight however when each one of the little f**kers is practising from dawn until dusk, filling my cell-like ex-seminary room with a cacophony of well-honed technique. Where are the parties? Where is the fresher’s ball? Where are the students for that matter?

When a Music College student is not practising or studying, you will find them in the refectory, for like humans they must eat to survive. It is here that I learn more about this culture. The brass players are the boozers and will display a brash and crude behaviour pattern. If you are a female brass player you must quickly learn to shed all femininity and ‘hang with the guys’. For both sexes an RNCM sweatshirt and unfashionable jeans are the order of the day (every day). String players will sit around sipping tea, reading books and discussing bowing technique while Opera singers burst into song between mouthfuls of pepperoni. Percussion students manage to combine refectory time with practise by hitting any available surface with a biro, while woodwind players shave their reeds into shape in readiness for more practice.

Practice, practice and more practice.

A riot if ever I saw one.

And so I have landed in the wrong place and must escape, some how.

It will be a year or so before I manage this and rest assured when I slip unceremoniously from this ship it is not something my Dad will decide to film. I am in good company though. As I face the Dean of Undergraduate Studies to be told my time is up he informs me that Howard Jones had gone in a similar way. With the singers hit single ‘What Is Love’ ringing round my head, I knew that I hadn’t found the answer to that question here, and must tread some pastures new.

MR SMITH, WHIPPETS AND JEHOVAH

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Every successful band must have an identity. It is not enough to have a standout front man with his own individual look. Although we certainly had this in abundance, we also needed to be dressed, in what could hopefully be described as, a stylish and fitting way, something to reflect and perhaps compliment the music. In the early days though, we would make do with what we already had in our wardrobe, and myself, with one foot by this time in the world of Factory Records, would bring to my own sad party, a plethora of long grey rain coats and other charity shop dourness. This was, after all, 1985.

The ‘blue-eyed soul’, I have previously referred to, would in due course require a much more sartorially elegant accompaniment and so, by some pulling of strings from high up, a Mr Paul Smith was enlisted to help out. Today of course, Mr Smith’s empire is colossal, with shops and outlets worldwide, a far cry from his debut operation in Nottingham (1970) and his soon to become ‘flagship’ store in Floral Street, Covent Garden. It was here we would meet the man himself to discuss our ‘look’. In the head office, a smallish room above the Floral Street shop, we gathered round a large antique-looking table, strewn with samples of material, new designs and clippings of glowing editorial. His ‘English Gentleman look’ with trademark flashes of eccentricity, usually manifested in colourful linings and mismatched check and stripe, would soon earn him the stellar reputation he has today. As the shop closed to the public, and with certain budgetary guidelines in place (we were to avoid anything made from cashmere or silk) a spending limit of £800 was levied (with 40% discount) and we were let loose to begin the most decadent ‘supermarket dash’ of our lives.

I am not a ‘natural’ shopper. Even today, if the need for new clothing is deemed quite essential, only then, will I very reluctantly, enter a shop. It is perhaps because of the above scenario, with young stylish sales assistants attending to our every need and Paul himself, on hand, advising and adjusting, and with no money visibly changing hands, that I feel the way I do.

And so it was, that these six young musicians would attend their next photo call, suited and booted with waistcoats and ties in place.

One of us though, had chosen a ‘bow’ tie to complete his look, a departure I had put down to being a practical joke, until I was invited to admire his large collection. Classical musicians and businessmen at gala functions, can all legitimately ‘rock’ the ‘bow’ tie look, but to my knowledge we were qualified to be neither. I was the youngest though and as the shutter blinked, I would have to cringe in silence.

The hardest part of my job is the never-ending dilemma of where to take the ‘artist’ to have dinner. In London of course it would be easy, with a myriad of options to suit every diva-fuelled diet. The macrobiotics, the pescatarians, they would all be catered for. Where I live however, there are just two food types to go at, ‘Good Pub Food’, and ‘Pub Food’. With that in mind, it is a pub in Wardlow, by the name of ‘The Three Stags Heads’ that I have selected for none other than the ‘princess of pop’ Ms Kylie Minogue. I know already she is a vegetarian, but for some un-explained reason I plough on with the plan, on the grounds that she will always remember the experience.

This pub, to say the least, is eccentric. As you descend into the two small rooms, each with fires burning, folk musicians playing (and telling the occasional story), lurchers and whippets

outnumbering customers and with the air reassuringly thick with ‘roll your own’ smoke, you know you are somewhere special.

The husband and wife team that run the place, he a ‘potter’ by trade and her a talented chef (who makes full use of said pottery) don’t exactly go out of their way to make you feel welcome. The first thing that greets you is a sign saying ‘do not ask for lager, as a punch in the face often offends’. Food takes ages to arrive and on one occasion when I nervously enquired as to where my lamb might have got to, I was told “it’s in the field” (everybody else had been served ten minutes ago)

But, when it arrives, ‘oh boy’.

Lets get one thing quite clear. I have been a huge admirer of this particular singer (a list of reasons I will not bore you with) for many years, and even in the midst of the rather disappointing ‘Indie Kylie’ period, as we are when she arrives, I will have nothing said against her. Our sixteen year old ‘tape op’ is virtually hyperventilating with excitement (along with me) and as we prepare to leave the studio for the pub (and as if the icing on the cake could get any sweeter) she offers to perform a dance routine she has choreographed for the tune we have just written.

“what, here? now?” I gasp.

“yeah , if you like?” she says.

The pub will need to wait for this.

The entire room dies and goes to heaven.

The meal itself is pretty much disastrous. The heavily meat led menu is of course a triumph, but the disappointing vegetarian option, sits unloved, on our chanteuse’s plate, until the waitress, who is the only person in the place young enough to recognise her, comes to clear. As the recognition kicks in, it is not just the penny that drops and simultaneously, everything she has collected ends up on the floor. Lurchers and whippets, more liberal in their dietary demands, move in to begin a feeding frenzy, which we take as a signal to leave.

On a plus point, nobody ordered lager.

Our new Paul Smith wardrobe would now begin a worldwide tour. One of our band however, was (although I don’t think still is) a committed Jehovah’s Witness and point blankly refused to wear the clothes on stage (the detail of his problem I forget). His views were grudgingly respected, until that is, one sunny American Sunday morning, our female tour manager woke early, drew back her hotel curtains, and witnessed a young man fully clad in Paul Smith attire, complete with copy of ‘Watch Tower’ embarking on a days impromptu door-stepping. It was put to him that, ‘if Paul Smith was good enough for Jehovah, then he was sure as hell good enough for our audience’

That night we were, for the first time, the united front of Paul Smith.

RIVA DEL GARDA ( TIKKA MASALA )

We are bound for Riva Del Garda, Northern Italy, and this is a gig I am uncharacteristically looking forward to. Why? You may well ask. Surely this would be a trip anyone would be gagging for? And you’d be right. We are staying at the ‘Hotel St. Vincent’, set amongst the splendours of lake Garda, overlooked by and in the picturesque bosom of the Dolomites. We are surrounded by breath taking scenery. Smartly dressed waiters, hover for the chance to serve us ice cold ‘spumante’.

Way back when, in the days when record companies had more money than sense and un-recouped balances were just a twinkle in a ‘head of A/R’s’ expense budget, it was customary to send bands, ‘per diems’ in hand, out to these exotic Euro-festivals to promote their latest single.

“We would be miming”.

These words were gold plated and studded with diamonds.  I would lovingly caress the true meaning they had for me, for the full duration of the trip.

Most bands, I think, took this miming thing for granted, but here was one nervous trumpet player who would cartwheel with joy, (if he could) in the sure-fire knowledge that our lead singer would have no recourse or reason to chastise said trumpet player for the inevitable array of split notes he was fast becoming renowned for. (A subject I will undoubtedly return to in due course)

As our white Italian-style transit van deposited us at the hotel we could see ahead of us, and alighting from a black stretch limo, none other than Boy George, milliner in tow (I made that bit up) along with The Thompson Twins, Paul Young and several other 80’s luminaries.

The show was a blast. Thousands of screaming Italian children singing the wrong words, I would mime my face off adopting ridiculous poses that no self respecting trumpet player could possibly entertain and as long as ‘His Masters Voice’ didn’t turn round to witness the charade, all was well with the world.

My Father-in–Law seasonally points out to us that the Turkey we eat on Christmas day has ‘changed out of all recognition’. Being the son of a Poulterer, he should know.

Song writing I fear has suffered in the same way and being the son of a Methodist preacher I should have no good reason to know. But, by some quirk of fate, after an abortive spell at Music College and a decade of pretending to play the trumpet, I find myself with that dubious title.

In the last 15 years the number of people who now call them selves ‘song-writers’ has multiplied like bacteria in a petri dish. Sixteen year-olds will now emerge from school, iPad in-hand, quietly confident that this is what they have become and before you accuse me of being a Luddite, I will be the first to acknowledge that a handful of them are fiercely talented.

It’s 2002 and tomorrow I have the pleasure of writing with none other than Gareth Gates. At 10AM I’m still lying in bed perusing what I might buy him to eat for his lunch. No rush though, as this is all happening tomorrow. We live in a remote rural spot deep in the heart of the Peak District. I pride myself on ‘laying on’ a tasty sandwich for lunch, which always necessitates a lengthy shop in 'M and S' the day before the session.

As my wife enters the bedroom I instantly know something is wrong.

“there are two people at the front door! I think one of them is Gareth and the other looks like his Dad?”, she worryingly observes.

“Impossible”, I shout. “the session is clearly tomorrow!”

The one thing I have learnt in this business is that the artist is always late, never early, and never ever a whole day early.

To my horror it is indeed Gareth and Manager/Father standing at the front door and I feverishly spring into action. Donning yesterday’s dirty clothes I descend the stairs to meet and greet.

This is not how it was supposed to be.

They are apologetic and very sweet, blaming the mix up on bad diary keeping but I know this is a bad omen. Gareth has a stinking cold but insists on wanting to write something along the lines of, Bon Jovi’s ‘Living On A Prayer’, periodically snorting salt water (yes that was salt water) over the kitchen sink. The only thing in the fridge is a frozen chicken tikka massala.

I am doomed and before long they are gone.

The day after St.Vincent, with an early evening flight to catch, we had some time to kill. Our drummer and I decided to take a walk by the lake. We both knew there would be hoards of screaming Italians waiting to spot Boy George’s hat and perhaps recognise us, but as we effortlessly meandered through the crowds, we suddenly bumped into some of the members of Depeche Mode.

I loved their brand of synth-fuelled electronic music, a far cry from the ‘blue eyed’ soul we served up, so when the blonde curly one in the dress invited us back to their hotel we eagerly accepted.

As we entered one of their several suites I couldn’t help noticing two people having sex, fully clothed, on a nearby bed. Fan and band member in joyful union, and with no apparent need for the removal of clothing, I was witnessing for the first time, the art of the ‘dry shag’. So this was Rock and Roll.

Whilst trying to avert my gaze, we finally reached the balcony, below which, stood hundreds of excited fans.

Champagne flute in hand, like the Queen at a Jubilee celebration, we waved back, importantly.

I’ve often wondered what exactly went on behind that balcony at Buckingham Palace.